


at every pore with instant fires

by procrastinatingbookworm



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Disabled Character, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Desk Sex, Dom/sub Undertones, French Kissing, How Do I Tag, Kissing, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Season/Series 05, Wheelchair Sex, anyway bobby singer is bi and crowley is gay, disabled old dudes get to have fun too
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-14 16:13:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18055790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm
Summary: “This is the exception that proves the rule,” Crowley gasped, eyes flickering open and then slamming shut. “The ladies have more luck, and even then…” he hissed in a breath. “Slim pickings. Even your average idiot knows that crossroad demons aren’t to be fucked with in any way, especially l-literally.”“You talk too much,” Bobby told him.





	at every pore with instant fires

“Ask for what you want,” Crowley prompted, crouching lithely in front of Bobby.

Bobby scowled at him and shifted his wheelchair minutely, so they were exactly eye to eye. “I want… to know where Death, the Horseman, capital-D will be, in physical form in… say… a week or sooner. I want coordinates. Street address too. And why he’s there, while you’re at it, so we don’t go in with our heads all the way up our asses.”

Crowley tilted his head expectantly. With the way he was crouched on the carpet, the demon looked like a puppy, or a toddler.

Bobby sighed. “In exchange for… my soul.”

“Was that so hard?” Crowley purred, rising to his full height and then bending down again, hands sliding out of his pockets as he captured Bobby’s mouth in a kiss.

One of Crowley’s hands rested on the back of Bobby’s head, one of Bobby’s on Crowley’s chest.

The demon’s soft lips were parted slightly, and Bobby pressed his tongue forward without thinking. A gasp caught in Crowley’s chest, the borrowed heart stuttering under Bobby’s palm.

There was a faint clicking sound, like a camera shutter, a faint thump, and Crowley’s other hand cradled Bobby’s cheek.

Crowley kissed like it was his last day on earth. Given the circumstances, there was no saying that it wasn’t. Bobby leaned up into it, tasting something sharp and metallic but too sweet to be blood as Crowley pulled away.

“Chicago,” Crowley gasped, hoarsely. “I…”

Still half draped over Bobby’s chest, the demon grabbed a notebook and a pen from Bobby’s perpetually cluttered desk and scribbled something down.

Bobby craned his neck to look. A set of coordinates, an address, _Chicago, USA_ , then _3 million_ and _Storm._

Crowley set the pen down. It rattled against the wood for a moment, then stilled.

“Did you just pull my soul out through my mouth?” Bobby asked, bewildered and slightly disgusted and very, _very_ slightly aroused. He glanced down. “And take a _picture_ of it?”

Crowley pursed his lips in a distinctly effeminate way. “Best access point,” he breathed, settling on his knees beside Bobby’s chair. “The chest has…” Crowley swallowed, a little thickly, tracing one soft palm down Bobby’s chest. “...too many bits in the way. Soul might get stuck.”

“All right,” Bobby said, slowly. He rested his hands on the wheels of his chair, but he didn’t move away.

“Not the hands, too many nerves,” Crowley purred, delightfully hoarse, his bottom lip flushed red from the kiss. He grasped one of Bobby’s hands and lifted it up, tracing veins and scars. After a fraught moment, the demon tugged Bobby’s hand to his mouth and kissed it, lips rasping over slightly dry skin.

Bobby allowed it. Maybe it would damn him, but he allowed it.

“The ears have…” Crowley kept hold of Bobby’s hand, rising on his knees to press his mouth to the side of Bobby’s head, nibbling the shell of his ear. “Too many complex mechanisms. Could suck it out of your cock, but I don’t think you’re quite…” he sucked in a breath, “...equipped.”

“Shut your trap,” Bobby groused, “and get back here.”

Before he knew what he was doing, Bobby curled his hands in the lapels of Crowley’s suit and was tugging him into another kiss.

Crowley sighed in obvious, indisputably authentic pleasure, cupping Bobby’s face with a tenderness that Bobby wouldn’t have expected from any demon, much less the self-proclaimed King of the Crossroads.

“What more do you want from me?” Bobby rasped, and was treated to one of Crowley’s winning smiles.

“Sometimes a fag’s just a fag,” he said, as if that explained everything.

 _Sure is,_ Bobby thought, raising his eyebrows.

“Means cigarette in British slang,” Crowley explained. “Though you are right.”

“Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar,” Bobby sighed, shoving down the most recent memory he had of _that_ phrase. “Come here. You’ll have your fag.”

Crowley rose obligingly, balancing himself on Bobby’s lap as he leaned up to kiss him. Bobby couldn’t quite feel the pressure; he was mostly paralyzed, but the rustle of fabric and the way Crowley’s weight landed meant he couldn’t really have his hands anywhere else.

“I could if you wanted,” Crowley moaned, fingers digging in just above Bobby’s waist, pressing into the spot where feeling began to return.

“Can you read my mind?” Bobby asked, biting down on the demon’s lip.

“I _literally_ have your soul lodged somewhere behind my sternum. Yes. I can, ah, at this—mmm, stop that—distance, read your—don’t _actually_ —mind.”

Bobby translated that, and gave the King of the Crossroads another hickey.

“Ah,” Crowley breathed, eyes shut tightly. “Good, that’s…good. Really good.”

Bobby pulled back slightly, composing himself. Crowley opened his eyes, looking up at Bobby with that questioning, puppyish expression.

“Get up on the desk,” Bobby ordered taking off his cap and running one hand through his hair.

Crowley swallowed. “What?”

“I can’t get the angle right to blow you unless you’re above me,” Bobby answered, and Crowley’s hand darted for the button of his pants.

Bobby almost objected, but he did suppose it would be easier than trying to get the demon out of his clothes while he was perched on Bobby’s desk.

Bobby rolled forward, arranging himself, while Crowley kicked off his dress pants and slid his boxers—black silk, the fucking pansy—down his legs, then pushed himself up to sit on the desk.

The boxers got caught at his feet, so Bobby helped him, slipping off Crowley’s shoes and socks and then pulled his underwear the rest of the way down.

Crowley squirmed where he sat, inching forward slightly. He spread his legs, the pale skin of his inner thighs shading into the angry red of arousal.

Bobby reached out and touched him gently, tracing the path of dark hair that ran from Crowley’s stomach to his erection. The demon shuddered, closing his eyes and leaning back, holding himself up on shaking arms.

“Haven’t done this in a while,” Bobby admitted, pressing a kiss just above Crowley’s navel. “Might be a bit out of practice.”

“Please,” Crowley whimpered. “Do you know how rare it is for demons… especially _crossroad_ demons, to actually have sex?”

“How rare, exactly?” Bobby asked, trailing his fingers across Crowley’s thighs, then leaning down and tracing the same path with his mouth.

“Demons are all technically… siblings. Or regard each other that way. So that would be a bit awkward. We usually don’t, um… possess vessels that have…” Crowley whined as Bobby nipped him. “Mmh. Anyone close enough that would… notice, a-and… owning someone’s soul doesn’t make you very f-fuckable.”

“Even a pretty man like you?” Bobby asked, gripping Crowley’s padded hips.

“This is the exception that proves the rule,” Crowley gasped, eyes flickering open and then slamming shut. “The ladies have more luck, and even then…” he hissed in a breath. “Slim pickings. Even your average idiot knows that crossroad demons aren’t to be fucked with in _any_ way, especially l-literally.”

“You talk too much,” Bobby told him, and took Crowley into his mouth.

It had been a long time since Bobby was with a man. He’d married relatively young, and before that there was a bit of a taboo against the whole concept. Still, that hadn’t stopped him from fooling around with a few other hunters when things were going to shit (and sometimes when they weren’t).

Still, it was like riding a bike. Hard to forget how to suck dick.

Out of practice or not, Crowley seemed to be enjoying it. He gasped like he was drowning, keeping one hand planted on the desk and curling the other into Bobby’s hair, thighs twitching as Bobby sucked him off.

“You going to swallow, or should I give you fair warning?” Crowley wheezed, tugging on Bobby’s hair.

 _Both,_ Bobby thought, and knew it got through when Crowley moaned above him.

Crowley didn’t last much longer. “Bobby,” he warned, and came. Bobby tilted his chin up and swallowed, as promised.

Crowley slumped forward, catching himself on Bobby’s shoulders, gasping for breath, trembling through the aftershocks. Bobby still had his mouth around him, and he traced lazy circles with his tongue until Crowley gasped out a sob and twitched his hips backward.

“Move your fat ass,” Bobby growled. “Or I’ll bite.”

“Kinky,” Crowley gasped, leaning back so they could untangle. “Let’s save that for next time.”

“Who says there’ll be a next time?” Bobby snapped, without thinking.

Crowley looked away, his soft face seeming even more human in profile. “I… er… was just offering…”

Bobby softened. “If the world doesn’t end before we get another chance, I’ll take you up on that.”

Crowley smiled. It wasn’t the overbright grin that he usually wore, or cheshire-cat pleased, just a bright, contented smile.

“Maybe next time I’ll give you something,” Crowley murmured, looking so uncharacteristically thoughtful that Bobby couldn’t help reaching up and squeezing his hand.

“Idjit,” Bobby said fondly. “You’ve given enough.”

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "To His Coy Mistress" by Andrew Marvell


End file.
